Destructive - Newsies | Sprace

Seven | Race

Jack stood atop a table, clutching a glass of water in his hand. "Things have been... rough lately. We'se got boys gettin' sick and then there was the passin' of old man Kloppman. Then last night, one of our own was struck and killed." Jack eyed the room and raised the glass higher. "To Mush!"

"To Mush!" The rest of the newsies echoed back, raising their respective glasses.

The sounds of newsboys clinking their glasses together echoed through Jacobi's Deli. Race was sat next to a miserable looking Blink who was doing his best to fake a smile. The rest of the newsies were scattered throughout the dining room and Race was suddenly thankful that Jacobi had let them come in, despite the fact that it was closed. Jacobi always seemed to have a soft spot for the misfits.

Davey and Les sat across from Blink and Race, and they were chatting about the days paper. Most of the newsies were commenting on how it was indeed tragic and awful, the headline still brought in a fair amount of coin. Jack proceeded to butt in and remind everyone that 'headlines don't sell papes, newsies sell papes'. Well, dead newsies.

"I sold 120 today!" Skittery yelled from the table next to theirs. "What about you?"

The rest of the newsies answered back with varying numbers, all from 60-100. Davey even pitched in with his shocking number of 100, and Les even sold 80 today.

"How many did you sell today, Race?" Les asked, his young voice grabbing Race's attention.

"Uh, 20." Race said back, taking a swig of water.

"You mean 120?" Les asked, hopeful.

Race just shook his head and crammed his cigar into his mouth.

"Heya, Race!" Dutchy called out from across the room. "Wanna play?" He waved around a deck of cards that Race had given him when he bought a new deck about a year ago.

"You guys go ahead without me." Race responded.

The room fell silent.

"Did Race just turn down a game of cards?" Someone whispered.

"I think he said he only sold 20 papes today, too." Another newsie chimed.

Soon, the room was swarming with boys talking about Racetrack. Some were saying that he could be sick and others suggested he just hadn't eaten in the past few days. Race let out a groan and then stood up, silencing the chatter that had occurred because of him.

"I'm gonna head back," Race announced, "Keep those sick boys company."

Everyone's eyes followed Race as he made his way out of the deli and out onto the streets of Manhattan. Racetrack always appreciated the nightlife. The moon shone brightly above, reflecting off of the buildings. Race felt this was an appropriate time for him to smoke, as he was worried that Mush's death was his fault and the tip of his cigar was becoming a bit soggy. He pulled out a box of matches and struck one, the flame sizzling on the end of the tiny wooden tick.

Race brought it to the end of his cigar, using one hand to shield the flame from the wind. When the cigar caught, he shook the match so the flame died and tossed it to the side. Just to be sure, he stomped on it a few times so that it didn't go spontaneously catching fire.

Racetrack let a smile spread across his face as the smoke swirled in the air around him. He took a long drag and exhaled the remainder of the smoke, letting the nicotine flood his body.

He sauntered his way back to the lodge house, taking his time to enjoy the cigar he had been carrying around for the past two weeks. When he finally arrived, he tossed the smoldering cigar down and stomped it into the dirt, twisting his foot to kill out all of the sparks and flames.

When Race walked in, he was met with the new lodge owner sitting on the staircase. Racetrack nodded in greeting.

"Hey," Andrew said. "Your name is....?"

"Racetrack. Or, Race." He filled in the blank for Andrew Kloppman.

"Racetrack! That's it." Andrew snapped his fingers. "Listen uh, Racetrack, you seem like you know what you're doing."

"What of it?" Race asked back.

"Do you guys keep any alcohol in this joint?" Andrew asked, running his hand through his greasy, stringy, dark brown hair.

Race shook his head. "Like we could afford that."

Andrew rolled his eyes.

"I didn't even know Kloppman had a son." Race said, leaning against one of the walls.

"Not many do. We didn't get on too well if you get what I mean."

"Ah." Race expressed, putting the pieces together in his mind that Kloppman had probably kicked out his son due to alcohol addiction. Or, that's what he assumed.

"Honestly, I don't know how my father managed all of you without any alcohol." Andrew chuckled, leaning back on the stairs.

"We respected 'em." Race murmured, nodding his head.

Racetrack wound his away around Andrew lying on the stairs, then proceeded to work his way up to the sickbay so if anyone asked, the newsies could vouch that he did come back to talk to the sick boys. In reality, Race just couldn't stand to listen to the others yap about why they thought he was acting weird.

He entered the sickbay and saw Crutchie lying in a bed which was positioned next to Specs' bed.

"Heya, boys!" Race greeted.

"Race, what're you doin' here?" Specs asked, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

"Came to see you guys." Race stated, taking a seat on one of the beds.

"Thanks," Crutchie coughed out.

It was pretty rough to see the usually happy newsboys laying in beds with red noses and baggy eyes.

"How's Blink doing?" Crutchie asked, wiping his nose with his sleeve quickly afterward.

"He's still pretty upset, 'im and Mush were real pals."

They continued to chat on, Race updating them on anything they had missed, which wasn't much because Jack did a good job of keeping everyone in the loop. The clock ticked on the wall, and soon enough Racetrack found himself bidding the sick boys goodnight.

He made his way back to his bunk and decided it was time to hit the hay. He slipped off his shirt and vest, then proceeded to toss them in the drawer in the table next to his bunk. He fished out a cigar from the box under his mattress and placed it into his tin can so he wouldn't have to do any extra work tomorrow morning. Race climbed into his bunk and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. As he stared at the dark room, he found himself picturing Spot Conlon's laughing face.

As much as he tried to stop it from happening, but for some unknown reason, Racetrack couldn't stop seeing flashes of his old friend playing through his head like a movie.

For an even more unknown reason, the pictures of Spot in his head made him smile.  

-1156 Words-